


Ballad of the Swamp Hag

by dwtbasv



Category: Preacher (Comics), Preacher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bloodlust, F/M, Longing, Romance, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27960443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwtbasv/pseuds/dwtbasv
Summary: For decades, a creature has lived at the bottom of a bog in the Irish countryside. She doesn't like to hurt people. Sometimes, she does anyway. But her latest victim is about to change everything.A quick exploration of what might have happened if Cassidy got to know the vampire who turned him...
Kudos: 2





	Ballad of the Swamp Hag

I can't tell you how long I've been accustomed to the damp darkness of my swamp. Years, surely. Decades? Perhaps. Whoever I was is long-forgotten. Today, I'm little more than a creature. A lonely, starving, desperate creature.

I vaguely recall counting the days in the beginning. The hours in obscurity would drag on for ages, until the harsh light of day finally relented, and I could surface to breathe the air and live the dry and feel human again, for a moment.

That count didn't last long—confusion and despair prevailed—but the ritual of returning to the land persists. It's the one thing preventing me from becoming fully animal. Not that I deserve the remnants of my humanity, the filthy thing I've become.

My memory fails in my desperate attempt to recall how I fell from grace. I grasp at flashes of violence and my own deathly pain, and then everything goes to black. Just the start of my existence in the dark.

How could such a monster attack an innocent girl? I never had to ask myself that question, because the answer is so clear. Beside the dread, and the bleak solitude, the hunger is the one thing that persists. I can't ignore it. But I don't have to give in, either. Except sometimes, I do.

Sometimes it's a barn animal—a goat somehow separated from her flock—and I count my blessings. I eat well, and for a short while, the aching for fresh, hot, flowing blood nearly goes quiet. My conscience can rest.

But I dread the nights I hear the murmurs and singsong voices of men at the side of the road. I'm safe while the sun shines, but in the dark of the night, they sound so vibrant and bold, coursing with life, and there's so very little left of my will that I can't help but rise from the depths and feed. There are times I can resist—when my unholy body curses me for refusing to nourish it, while my withered soul sings—but I'm ashamed to have lost track of the men who've lost their lives to my insatiable hunger.

I'm worried about this night. It's a full moon, and the bright of the sky has a tendency to lure the land's weariest travelers to me, particularly on warmer evenings like these. It must be the dead of spring. I know I don't have it within me to fight myself tonight. And too much of my being screams out to be fed, and delights in the moon's auspicious gift.

And then I hear it—even from below the water I recognize the sound of running footsteps. It's strange. I can already smell the fear on this young man. He stops by the edge of the water, and there's no time to wonder what's frightened him so, because I require the fiery blood that's surely pulsing through his veins.

My strength surprises me, as it always does, and it's so easy to drag him under the water.

He struggles, but it's no use. He catches a glimpse of me, and the horrified, disgusted look on his face reminds me of my existence as some subhuman thing. I've been less than human as long as I can remember. It's his downfall. That makes it so much easier to sink my teeth into his lean, young neck, piercing his skin and allowing his sweet, metallic blood to flow and flow.

I don't understand why I stop. Yes, this man—this _boy_ , really—looks up at me with such despair and helplessness that I nearly feel something human again. But this isn't the first time it's happened. And yet, I can't drink another drop. I let him go.

Such a waste. The bleeding will end him, I'm sure of it. But a morality I thought was long dead speaks loudly, and the rest of me listens.

He makes it to the edge of the ditch, and then stumbles. I think he might be dead, but my curiosity gets the better of me, and I take a seat near the body. He's still breathing, and I find myself watching him as he's unconscious.

I realize now he's a bit handsome, when he's not fighting for his life. It's unlikely that's what stopped me, but I can't fully rule it out, either. Whatever is stirring in me feels different. And I realize I haven't thought this deeply about anything as far back as my memory will go. It's a good feeling. I'm too distracted to be hungry.

I can only stay with him so long before the sun rears its ugly head. I head back into the water, but I can't bear to fully leave the scene. I stay closer to the surface than I typically dare.

I'm not sure why, but if he does manage to get up and leave, I want to witness it. I want to remember.

He stirs. I can't believe he's survived, even if it's been my hope. But things are wrong. He erupts into shouts, and begins to flame. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm grabbing him by the boot and dragging him back down— _deep_ this time.

I understand immediately. Somehow, he's like me. It's not something I'd wish on anyone, yet part of me relishes in not being alone. Cruelly, I'm happy to share this misery.

The man struggles again. He believes I'm drowning him. I exaggerate a breathing pantomime under the water, the bubbles swirling around us, to show him it's alright. His panic softens in a second as he takes his first breath of dirty liquid. It's uncomfortable for him—I'd forgotten the initial burning sting—and he flails before settling into a rhythm.

He's still scared, but something's changed. And he won't stop staring at me. I begin to wish these swamps hadn't transformed me into a despicable creature. He's the kind of man who makes you wish you were beautiful. I realize I can't recall thinking of such things before.

His gaze makes me uncomfortable, and we have many hours to go until nightfall returns. I decide to try to rest, expelling any air in my lungs and sinking to the floor, closing my eyes as I curl up. I never sleep well, but even I require rest.

I peek through my mostly closed eyes to find he's mimicking me. Breathing out is still difficult, but he manages it, and shuts his own eyes. I resist the urge to smile for the first time in many years. I dream about swimming with him in clear blue waters, full of trout, and rising to the surface to feel the sun on my skin without catching alight.

When I wake, the man is only an arm's length from me. I'm startled, but he's still asleep, and I find the closeness is welcome. The sun is still up, but its position in the sky tells me it won't be for long.

I bide my time. I've become quite good at waiting, and allowing time to pass without expectation. This day is pleasant compared to the others. The bloodlust is low, and for the first time, I have company. I can't normally feel my pulse, but now it's strong. Nearly human.

When the sun is low enough, I jostle the young man awake. Upon seeing me, he smiles wide. I'm nearly grateful I'm pale and sallow and waterlogged, because if I weren't, I'd probably blush.

I make my way to the shore, and he follows. Our clothes are damp, and we both shiver from the cold, even though it's relatively warm out. The respite from the bog is worth the chill.

The man attempts to speak, and winds up coughing out mouthfuls of water instead. He clears his throat and tries again.

"Yeh've got quite a lot of explainin' to do, lass," he chokes out.

His voice starts low and then rises and falls with each subsequent syllable. It's the first time anyone has spoken to me in years. It's even better than I'd imagined. Like music.

"But first," he says, "I'd like to know yer name."

My name? What is it? I'm not even sure if I can speak. I don't know the last time I tried.

But the man wants to know my name, and I need dearly for him to know it. To know me. It was... it was...

"Bridget," I finally answer, my voice worn and crackling, but mine nonetheless. "It's Bridget."

The second time, I sound almost like a real person—a real woman with a real name. That was my name. I'm sure of it. And recalling it fills me with a sense of something like pride. My skin tingles.

"It's a pleasure ta meet yeh, Bridget," he grins, and his saying my name makes me feel even more right about it. "I'm Proinsias, by the way."

Proinsias. Now there's a name I'll never forget.

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not come back to this, but this was swirling around in my head and I had to get it out before I lost it. If you enjoyed it, I'd love to hear from you :)


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